


The Islands of the Blessed

by Mertiya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Cancer, If I get murdered by my friends, M/M, Ripped my own heart out again I need to stop doing this to myself, Romance, Sorry Sarah, Suicide, Third Star - Freeform, Tragedy, they're probably entirely justified
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has never gone down without a fight, but the only way to fight this is not to let it win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Islands of the Blessed

**Author's Note:**

> I shamelessly stole the plot from Third Star, and I'm sure this has been done before, but what can I do? I'm a slave to my muse, and she's always worse when I've had a bad day. Also, I ripped my own heart out writing this (again), so you have been warned!

             “Sherlock?”  John woke up again with pain crashing through every pore, every atom of his body; he gulped and gasped and reached desperately for his morphine. 

             Shivering in the now-unnatural clarity, he managed to sit up, his legs tangled in his sleeping bag.  He found the morphine bottle easily; Sherlock had left it standing beside his pillow, but his lover was gone, the sleeping bag beside him empty and cold.  It gave John a horrible, desperate, fearful feeling.  Sherlock hadn’t left his side in months, not once, not since the diagnosis, and, without him, he felt suddenly lost and alone and incomplete.

            He smelled smoke from outside the tent, which told him Sherlock must have snuck outside for an early-morning cigarette, not wanting to bother John and also presumably knowing how frustrated and disappointed he would be, but John didn’t dwell on the surge of frustration; there was no point in having negative emotions _now_.

           John had thought about dying a lot, before.  When you were a soldier, when you were surrounded by guns and blood and heat, it had a way of occupying the mind, rather.  He’d certainly thought he was about to die countless times in the past.  But he’d never thought it would be like this, that he would have time to watch as death sneaked up and wrapped around him, as he fought and fought, trying to hide the pain from Sherlock, trying to hide the fear.  This wasn’t how he was supposed to die.  He was supposed to die _quickly_ , with maybe half a second to think _oh shit_ , or _please god let me live_ , and then bang, snuffed out.  He could have handled that.  

           Lately--well, not lately, but before the diagnosis--when he thought about it at all, he’d assumed that he was going to end up dead while trying to save someone, and if he was really lucky, it would be Sherlock.  Maybe the two of them would even go out in a blaze of glory together, which was a stupidly romantic notion Sherlock would have snorted at if John had ever voiced it, but it was a nice fantasy in its own way.

           But _this_.  This was cold and hollowness, unrelenting pain and weariness, trying to fight, _always_ trying to fight (because fuck if John was going to give up without a fight), but with an end that was never, ever in question, because not even Sherlock Holmes could do a damn thing to stop cancer.

            And he was done.  This was enough.  If there’d been any chance, any chance at all, he’d have tried to hang on, if only for Sherlock, but he was a good enough doctor to know when there wasn’t even a million-to-one chance anymore.  He’d considered the next step seriously, for a long time, and maybe he should’ve told Sherlock beforehand, but he’d simply assumed Sherlock would already have deduced the purpose behind this trip.  It turned out he hadn’t.

            When John had been about six years old, his family had visited Harris in the Outer Hebrides, and he’d loved it. One night, John heard some of the guests at the inn where they were staying talking about how it was sometimes possible to wade across from Harris to the uninhabited isle of Scarp to the west.  He’d been up early the next morning and had slipped out away from his parents and waited for low tide.  If a fisherman hadn’t seen him, he would have probably been drowned; he’d never have made it across in time for the tide not to catch him.  In the end, he never set foot on Scarp, and it was always a faint frustration for him.

            When, near the end of primary school, he read about the Islands of the Blessed, the Celtic mythological version of heaven, it was the blue, low-lying island of Scarp he pictured, wreathed by clouds that caught the early-morning light.  He’d always wanted to go back, but he’d never really had the chance, until now.

            The morphine was kicking in.  John was able to get slowly to his feet and head out the front of the tent.  As he’d expected, Sherlock was sitting crouched in front of it, dragging on a lighted cigarette.

            “Morning,” John said, and Sherlock grunted at him in response.  He had taken off his coat and scarf and laid them aside on the rock beside him.  John sat awkwardly beside him and leaned his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.  “I thought you knew.  You know _everything_.”

            Sherlock’s clear grey eyes slid across to him as he breathed out wreathes of blue smoke, like a dragon.  “Sentiment,” he said, and there was a weary cadence to his voice that made John’s heart ache to hear.  “With anyone else, I would have known immediately the trip was suggested.”

            “I’m sorry,” John said again.  “I should have told you why I…” his voice trailed off.

            “There was no reason for you to assume I had not understood,” Sherlock said, his voice low and rough.  “I understand your position, John.  If I were in your shoes, I would not want to wait, either.”

            John took Sherlock’s hand and pressed it to his mouth.  “I don’t want to leave you,” he said hoarsely.  “God, if I could…if there was anything—“

            “I know,” Sherlock said.  He put an arm around John and drew him close, dropping a gentle kiss on his head.  “I know.”

            “I love you,” John said quietly.  It was an effort to get the words out, even though they were well-worn words he had said a thousand times before.

            “I love you as well,” Sherlock replied.  He let the cigarette drop to the sand and ground it out with his heel.  “And, no, John, I won’t try to stop you.”

            John felt his insides twist again.  He knew, in a way, this was selfish, taking the easy way out instead of going down fighting, but he was so tired.  He was too tired to fight an unwinnable fight any longer, and the more time wore on, the less of himself would remain.  If he let this go, he would lose anyway; he wouldn’t even be able to die as himself.  He didn’t want to die in his bed if dying in his bed meant he would look at Sherlock and not know his face.

            “But,” Sherlock continued stonily.  “I’m not going to let you swim out there by yourself.  I’m coming with you.  I won’t let you go alone.”

            John nodded and leaned against Sherlock.  “Thanks,” he said honestly.  “I don’t think—I don’t think there’s a good choice anymore.  But you’re right, I’d rather not be alone.”

            “Of course,” Sherlock said, his voice apparently devoid of emotion.  But John knew Sherlock well enough to know that this was just his attempt to keep himself from betraying anything which might hurt John.

            They sat together for a long time, as the sun came up, as the tide rose.  They were on the beach facing Scarp, and John thought that he could have done this from Scarp, could have actually set foot on the beach across from them, but that—wouldn’t have been right, somehow.  The sea was very blue, but when John looked back up at Sherlock’s eyes, they were empty of color, chips of ice in his pale face.  “Hey,” he said gently.  “It’ll be OK, Sherlock.”

            Sherlock turned his face toward him.  “Yes,” he said slowly.  “Shouldn’t I be the one telling _you_ that?” 

            John fidgeted uneasily.  “Well, I’m just dying,” he pointed out, with a slight laugh.  His stomach felt hollow, fearful, scraped out.  “You have to—to keep going.”

            “Mmm,” Sherlock said.  “Living.  Yes.  Quite the dilemma.  I’m fairly certain most people would prefer to be in my position than in yours.”

            “Oh, I don’t know that that’s true,” John said.  “Depends on the person, really.”

            “Perhaps,” Sherlock responded.  “You’ve always had more faith in people than I have.”

            John nestled against Sherlock’s side and didn’t respond.  He was going to have to do this soon, before he lost the courage to go through with it, and the moments flowed forward, carrying him onwards toward the time that would split him away from Sherlock (forever, whispered a voice in his mind, but he fiercely tamped it down; he didn’t _know_ that).  Finally, with a sigh, he got to his feet.  “OK,” he said roughly.  “I guess I’d better stop putting this off.”

            Sherlock stood as well and simply offered him a hand, which he took.  Silently, the two of them began to walk toward the shore.  He’d sort of expected something else from Sherlock, maybe a goodbye kiss, or at least a hug, but he supposed that might be a little too much to expect.  Sherlock didn’t deal with sorrow the way a normal human being would, after all.  In any case, Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to let go of his hand any time soon.

            When they reached the edge of the water, John kicked off his shoes and socks and waited as Sherlock did the same.  He still felt hollow, but there was a raw kind of excitement inside him, the adrenaline reaction he’d had hundreds of times before.  The shock of the cold water on his bare feet made him smile through the tears that were gathering at the corners of his eyes.

            “Shall we?” Sherlock asked, tightening his grip on John’s hand.  There was something odd in his voice, but whether because of the morphine or because of how strange the situation was, John couldn’t quite tell what it meant.

            He gave a short, sharp nod, and the two of them began to wade out into the salty surf. 

            Once the water level had reached his chest, John let himself fall forward and began to swim.  He’d always been a fairly strong swimmer, and even now, weakened by months of illness, he could still make his way through the water, particularly because he could feel Sherlock beside him.

            They swam for a long time.  The salt water stung John’s mouth and nose, and the numbing cold did more than the morphine to ease the pain he might otherwise have been feeling.  He loved this feeling.  He loved the way the tide buffeted at him roughly (it made him think of Sherlock’s preferred lovemaking style, which made him laugh, and he inhaled seawater), the clean tang of salt in his mouth, the way the sky above and the sea below met almost seamlessly in a tangle of blue (the way you could not tell, in their bed in Baker Street, where John ended and Sherlock began), and the worn line of Scarp beckoning him onwards.

            Eventually, though, it had to end.  John’s heart was beating hammer-like in his chest, and he could barely keep his head above the water.  He wavered and stopped, gasping, tugging on Sherlock’s hand.  “I think…this is it,” he panted, and Sherlock swam over to him.  “Can’t…I can’t go on any longer.”

            They’d gotten much closer to Scarp than he had expected, but this was definitely it.  John was already beginning to sink, and it was suddenly terrifying, adrenaline rushing through his bones, as the familiar litany _Oh god fuck damn I’m going to die_ began to run through his head. 

            Sherlock reached out and drew him close with a nod.  “Don’t worry,” he said.  “I’m right here, John.”  Then he let them fall.

            The water closed over their heads.  It was still and peaceful beneath the water, cold and clear, grasping John’s body and drawing him sleepily downwards.  His lungs began to strain almost right away, huge bubbles of air bobbing gently toward the surface, and it wasn’t long before he could feel darkness threatening at the edges of his vision; he couldn’t hold his breath much longer.

            _Sherlock_ , he mouthed, because Sherlock was still there, was right beside him, holding John’s aching body close to his own, his form distorted from the way the light rippled through the water, but still right there.  _Sherlock, you’ve got to go_.  His lung capacity might be diminished, but Sherlock’s couldn’t be that much better.

            And then Sherlock reached down and pressed his lips across John’s, his tongue suddenly, roughly, forcing its way in, his hands coming up to cup John’s the sides of John’s head, and John understood.  _I won’t let you go alone_.

            Oh, Christ.  _No_ , he tried to say.  _No, you can’t, you’ve got your whole_ life _ahead of you, Sherlock, I’m not worth it_.

            Nothing much came out, and he inhaled water painfully, but even as his vision began to blur over and he struggled futilely for air, he could feel Sherlock’s lips on his, and the lips were forming words.  _You are my whole life_.

            As the sun began to sink into the west, it suffused the coastline of Scarp with a deep crimson.  Scarp had not been inhabited since 1971, although some people still used it as a holiday home and occasionally tourists arrived on its beach, drawn by the natural beauty of the scene.  But there was no one there today, so no one but the seabirds saw when the tide washed in the bodies of two men, one tall, one short, tangled about each other.

            John Watson had reached the shore of Scarp at last.


End file.
